


The Delicacy of Scully

by 2momsmakearight



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Cunnilingus, Drabble, F/M, Oral Sex, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 22:50:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6348790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2momsmakearight/pseuds/2momsmakearight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr drabble</p><p>Mulder's thoughts while he consumes Scully... in the best way possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Delicacy of Scully

She tastes like warm melted butter, salty and rich, like lobster with lemon and butter drizzling. I’ll never look at lobster the same way… It’s my favorite way to worship her, at the altar between her legs. It’s an act of implicit trust, to know how a woman tastes – to know how she smells on an elemental level. When she allows you to put your mouth against her, breathing her, consuming her… there isn’t anything like it. I could live and die in the sensitive flesh of her sex. 

I feel her walls quivering against my tongue as I stroke her swollen inner lips, her arousal dripping out of her. It’s a badge of honor, really. I’m making Dana Scully wet. I’m the one making her cunt swell with the simple use of my tongue. It’s something I learned early on in our relationship. She likes the teasing the most. I’ve never felt her wetter than when my tongue, or tip of my finger is simply swiping…, playing…, toying with her swollen flesh. Not entering her, not fucking her… just gently moving through her, around her. 

This is the art of making love. To give something to someone without any intent of reciprocity. I’ll make love to her cunt all day, any day. And it’s not because I’m some connoisseur of cunnilingus. It’s because of Scully. It’s because I love HER… and I love her body at its base level. No walls. No outside influences. Just us. It’s intimacy at its finest. 

My finger takes over the job as my tongue travels back to her clit, swollen and pulled back, exposed like a live wire. The tip of my tongue is hard and fast against it, and I can’t help but growl as her legs shake against my shoulders. A sharp pull at my hair brings me back, and I heed the warning – too much…, it’s too much. 

Around it, not directly on it. That’s the mistake most men make, she once told me. My finger draws lazy circles around her opening, her juices coating me as I feel her lips swell even further. I smile against her clit. It makes me supremely happy to know that she enjoys this. A couple times she has pulled me from her, her eyebrows furrowed with an apology. It was almost offensive that she apologized. “Don’t worry about it,” she told me, “sometimes it just doesn’t happen.” Of course I understood this – for the female orgasm resides in the brain…, and if there’s one thing Scully has a hard time turning off, it’s her brain. Especially if I’m eating her out in our office. 

Oh, did I not make that clear? She’s letting me do this in our office. I don’t think I’ve ever been harder – her ass hanging off the desk, skirt pushed around her hips, blank satin panties dangling from one ankle, and one shoe precariously hanging from her foot.

I want to make her come. I want to make her come so hard we need to buy a new calendar desk blotter… Actually, considering how wet she is, we already need one… I think it’s bleeding through March and April, all the way to June. 

Her chest is heaving – blotchy and red, and her arm is draped across her face, her moans muffled into the crook of her elbow. I feel her opening twitching, her inner walls clenching, squeezing what little of my finger is actually inside of her. I moan into her flesh, my lips suckling on her clit as my finger strokes her, her hips rhythmically moving against my hand. 

It’s one of the drawbacks about sex in the office (which we’ve had twice, by the way) – inevitably the phone rings, or the ding of the elevator doors alert us to someone’s arrival. 

Every. Single. Time. You would think we would learn. 

I feel like a child who was told they couldn’t eat the whole piece of cake as she closes her legs, sits up and answers the phone. ‘Hey, I was eating that!’ I want to tell her. The pouty look on my face must amuse her because she smiles into the receiver and takes her hand to wipe my face. She braces the hand piece into the spot between her ear and shoulder as she shimmies her panties over her hips, and pulls her skirt back into place… 

Later… Later, I’ll have time to truly appreciate the rich delicacy that is Dana Scully.


End file.
